The flicker of candlelight stretched shadows long across the polished mahogany floors. The man stood across the table from her, bathed in amber glow, a subtle smile stitched to his face.

  “Natalie Chmiel,” he repeated, voice smooth, nearly musical. “It’s an honor.”

  Natalie didn’t respond right away. Her heels clicked softly as she took a cautious step forward, clutching her purse tightly against her side.

  “Who are you?” she asked. Her voice was steady, but her eyes were moving — cataloging exits, windows, knives on the table.

  The man walked slowly toward the head of the table, never taking his eyes off her. “I go by many names. But tonight, you may call me Mr. Nowak. I hope the invitation wasn’t too forward.”

  She frowned. “You sent a stranger to hand me a note. You knew my name. You knew where I’d be.”

  He raised an eyebrow as he took his seat, folding one leg casually over the other. “Forgive me. Subtlety is a dying art. And I did so want this dinner to be… elegant.”

  Natalie didn’t sit.

  He gestured to the chair opposite him. “Please. The food’s still warm. I had it prepared the moment I knew you’d arrive.”

  “How did you know I’d come?” she asked, still standing.

  Mr. Nowak smiled wider. “Because you’re curious. And because you’re braver than most people think.”

  Natalie stared at him. She didn’t trust the room, the quiet, the perfectly placed silverware. But something in her knew that whoever this man was, he had answers.

  Slowly, she sat.

  “Wine?” he offered, lifting the bottle.

  “No.”

  “Of course,” he said, pouring only for himself. “I always thought the wine here was terrible anyway. Too bitter.”

  He took a sip and set the glass down gently. The space between them was heavy with restraint.

  Natalie glanced around. The walls were lined with faded photographs in golden frames, men in uniforms, women in veils, black-and-white images of another time.

  Then her eyes landed on one photo near the side wall.

  Her breath caught.

  The boy.

  Hair just like Casimir’s. Standing beside a woman — blonde, beautiful, in an old military nurse’s uniform. Her eyes were hollow even in the picture.

  Natalie stood up. “Who is that?”

  Mr. Nowak turned, following her gaze. “Ah… yes. That would be a very old friend. The woman’s name was Sasha. She had a son once. A boy who disappeared.”

  Her voice shook. “Casimir.”

  The name hung in the air like gun smoke.

  Mr. Nowak rose from his seat now, too, his expression dimming. “So you do know the name.”

  “I’ve seen him,” she whispered. “He’s alive. He’s not a memory, not a ghost. He’s here. In this city.”

  “Mm.” Nowak stepped to her side, looking at the photo. “You know, it’s strange. How some people die and become forgotten… while others, well…” He glanced at her now, his voice lowering. “Others become myths.”

  Natalie looked up at him, eyes narrow.

  “You work for him, don’t you?”

  Mr. Nowak didn’t answer at first. Then he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He changed the subject.

  “You know, I’ve read all about you,” Nowak said. “Your son. Your supposed new 'father'. Your childhood. All the beautiful little things that led you here.” He batted his lashes mockingly. “You're a very sad girl, Natalie.”

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  She didn’t blink.

  "W-what the hell are you on about?!"

  “And yet,” he continued, tilting his head, “you carry a gun.”

  Natalie reached into her purse and pulled it out, calm and wordless.

  Nowak’s eyes sparkled.

  “Aha,” he whispered, clapping twice, gently. “Bravo. The Sasha Bielska technique. Pull it like it’s perfume. Hold it like a cigarette. You're a vision.”

  “Tell me where he is,” she said, taking a step forward.

  He smiled. “Who?”

  “You know who.”

  Nowak leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. “Casimir doesn’t operate on your timeline. He isn’t waiting to be found. He’s watching. Always watching. Do you understand that?”

  “You never replied to my question. DO YOU WORK FOR HIM?!”

  “I don’t,” he said, smiling too much. “I work for the moment before something happens. The pause. The silence. The horror before the blood hits the floor. I’m just a messenger, darling.”

  Natalie’s grip on the pistol tightened.

  “I don’t care what you are,” she said. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  Nowak’s eyes narrowed, and for the first time, something serious passed over his face.

  “Then you haven’t been paying attention,” he whispered.

  Natalie raised the gun just slightly. It was enough.

  “Tell me,” she said, “what was his plan? Why did he want me and that other Japanese man at that castle in K?odzko?”

  Nowak smiled again. “Because it was necessary. Because the story needed a first chapter.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “No,” he said. “I’m faithful. And Casimir is the only thing left worth believing in. He's the end of the story you’ve been too afraid to finish.”

  "H-huh?!"

  He leaned back, folding his hands.

  “You won’t shoot me,” he said softly. “Because you still want answers. Because, deep down, you still believe you can stop him. You’re chasing closure like a child chasing fireflies. But the jar was shattered long ago, Natalie. And Casimir?”

  He paused, tapping his temple.

  Natalie took a breath. Just one. Just enough to steady her voice.

  “Don’t follow me.”

  She turned, quickly, gun still in hand, and stormed out of the room.

  Natalie had turned to go. Her heels echoed once on the marble floor, then stopped.

  Nowak’s voice, calm and terrifying, followed her like a shadow.

  “I lied,” he said.

  Natalie didn’t move. She didn’t turn. But the muscles in her shoulders went rigid, like a soldier waiting for the shot.

  “I do work for him,” Nowak continued, rising slowly to his feet. No longer playing. No longer coy. “I’ve worked for him since the beginning. Since before you ever found the first letter. Before we began searching for you.”

  He stepped forward, footsteps slow and deliberate. “You want the truth? Here it is.”

  Natalie turned her head slightly, just enough to see him in her peripheral vision.

  “We call ourselves The Burning,” he said, voice lowering to a reverent hush. “Because that’s what he showed us — the fire. The purity. The cleansing light. Casimir is the final shape of man. The last silhouette before the fall. We don’t serve him.” He smiled now — a slow, hideous, holy thing. “We worship him.”

  Natalie turned back around, gun still tight in her hand, her eyes locked to his.

  “Then you’re all sick.”

  “We’re believers,” Nowak said. “And belief is contagious. Haven’t you noticed? You’ve already begun to change.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Really? Then why are you still here?”

  That rattled her. But she didn’t show it. He took another step.

  “You think you’re hunting him. You think you’re the one in control. But every step you’ve taken has already been imagined. Every decision, every turn of your head, every name you whispered to the wind—he knew.”

  “You’re lying,” she snapped, louder now.

  Nowak’s grin only deepened. He raised one hand and slowly extended it, as though showing her a beautiful secret only she could see.

  “Your story was never your own, Natalie. That’s the truth. Casimir wrote it. Long before you ever picked up a pen.”

  Her finger trembled on the trigger.

  “Where is he?”

  Nowak laughed. “Where he always is,” he said. “At the edge of the world. Smiling.”

  Natalie’s lips parted. She wanted to scream. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to walk away and forget all of this. But she couldn't.

  She slowly lowered the gun.

  Nowak didn’t speak again. He simply bowed his head and stepped backward, into the darkness of the far hall, vanishing the way he’d come.

  Natalie stood in the flickering candlelight. Silent.

  The weight of the room hung heavy.

  The Burning.

  She repeated the name silently, over and over.

  Casimir was not just a man.

  He had become an idea.